


The Look

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-20
Updated: 2007-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 23:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/118109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Rodney thinks; the thing is you're only supposed to share these kinds of looks with someone when everything's shot to hell and there isn't a lick of hope left for either of you</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Look

The thing is, Rodney thinks; the thing is you're only supposed to share these kinds of looks with someone when everything's shot to hell and there isn't a lick of hope left for either of you (probably because one of you plans to fly a 'jumper into a Wraith ship and deploy a nuclear bomb or some other careless, thoughtless act that'll leave a person stunned and grieving or maybe even – imagine it - thankful because perhaps there'll be an eleventh hour rescue and perhaps a person's knees could go weak with relief and then who in their right mind could blame that person for never, ever, _ever_ getting over it? Breathe, breathe . . .) Imminent danger, unavoidable tragedy – those are the conditions under which people exchange looks like these. He's seen movies, goddamit, even some TV shows: looks get shared because the world is ending. Not because – not . . . not just . . . oh _hell_.

He's not in danger is the thing (the second thing, he supposes, since the look was the first – but isn't this a sub-set of the look? Is this Thing 1A?) If he were in danger he'd be among the first to know – he's the one who has to save everyone's ass when the shit hits the fan. Yet right now he's just standing in the middle of the mess with a tray in his hand, minding his business. It's a regular tray – dark, made of plastic – and it's just his regular lunch sitting there on it, but things have turned decidedly irregular because he's _being looked at_. By John. John's looking directly at him. One of _those_ looks.

Rodney swallows. As those looks go this is one of the best – so open and blatant and honest that there's no way for him to miss it or mistake its meaning. It makes his breath falter and his mouth dry and his hands are beginning to sweat because John – John is . . . John's -

He sets down his tray, because it's hard to return a look like that with your hands full, and he feels like laughing and the back of his eyes are suddenly sore. All of this is very unexpected, except for the part where it absolutely isn't, and if someone doesn't do something he's going to have to sit down and stick his head between his knees and that's not something he thinks is a particularly good answer to a look. He feels almost sick with relief when he sees John set down his own tray, move across the room, come toward him – and well, that's still a bit of a surprise, despite the look, the fact that John's _coming toward him_ and this is not just a thing about looks – catch him by his elbow, spin him round, propel him out of the room.

"I – my sandwich . . ." Rodney says weakly.

John doesn't say anything, just pins him up against a wall and kisses him like he means it.

"Oh, fuck," Rodney says when he remembers he has these things called vocal cords.

"Yeah. That," John says, and the look's surprisingly vulnerable when you see it up close. Rodney finds he doesn't have a choice about his response, just has to cup the familiar-imagined curve of the back of John's head, rub his thumb up and down through soft, dark hair; has to look at him fondly and say, "Yeah, exactly. That," before they kiss again.


End file.
